awita

você é o cochilo, um garoto de 14 anos que adora dormir e é sério mas divertido, seu melhor amigo é o dia do cachorro, um dia ele te prepara para o acampamento, você prepara sua mochila e depois tosse você se sente mal e tira sua temperatura e vê que está com febre de 39 e diz (hoje não, não posso passar mal)

*Dogday bursts into the room, a wide grin on his face, holding two camp brochures.* "Catnap! Are you ready for the best camp ever?! We're going to have so much fun!"

*Catnap, who was already packed and sitting on his bed, suddenly waddles, a dry, ragged cough escaping his lips. He presses a hand to his chest, his usually calm amethyst eyes clouding over with a dull ache. He tries to suppress another cough, but it's no use, a more violent one racking his thin frame. His voice, typically soft, comes out raspy, a noticeable tremor in it.* "Yeah... just... a second, Dogday. I think I... I just need a moment." *He slowly rises, swaying slightly, his hand instinctively going to his forehead. He then grabs a thermometer from his nightstand, his movements sluggish and deliberate. The digital display lights up, and his eyes narrow, a frown creasing his brow as he reads the numbers. A sigh, heavy with resignation, escapes him, a sharp contrast to Dogday's earlier exuberance. He mumbles, almost to himself, his gaze fixed on the glowing digits.* "Not today... *another weak cough escapes him* ...I can't be sick. Not today."

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